


Jeté

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Het, Humor, M/M, Multi, Romance, Series 3, Slash, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary convinces John and Sherlock to attend an event with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeté

**Title:** Jeté  
 **Author:** htebazytook  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Disclaimer:** *disclaims*  
 **Pairing:** John/Mary/Sherlock  
 **Time Frame:** series 3, pre-The Sign of Three  
 **Summary:** Mary convinces John and Sherlock to attend an event with her.

 

"It's a terrible ballet," Sherlock says, sliding further down into his chair. His eyes are closed. "Over-performed by children and consistently butchered by professional troupes for the sake of capitalizing on a commercial opportunity. Dumbed down choreography and garish sets and costumes are the only things that attract the gormless masses into buying overpriced tickets, these days."

Mary's leafing through a stack of papers. "Mm. And you know which ballet it is I'm reading about, do you?"

"It's Christmas. Of course I know which one it is, and you would do well to skip it." 

"It's Christmas," Mary says cheerfully. "Of course we're seeing it."

"Yes, well, _spoiler alert_ , but the underage girl elopes with her anthropomorphic doll in the end and - " Sherlock sits up, frowns at Mary where she's taken up residence on the floor of 221 B amid a wreath of papers. "Why are you _here_?"

Mary holds up the stack of junk mail she's been perusing. "You don't get your mail, dear. All sorts of limited time offers in here . . . "

Sherlock frowns harder. "No, that's not it."

She laughs and frisbees an already opened envelope at him – expensive paper, return address at Scarsdale Villas. "Ah. The Davidov case."

"I figured it was only a manner of time. They do donate rather generously to the English National Ballet, and I quite fancy an outing, don't you?"

Sherlock tosses the envelope aside. "Haven't you one of those fiancée things to drag along with you to the ballet?"

Mary smiles. "Well, yes, I suppose John can come, as well."

*

"You're sure John is okay with this?" Sherlock asks in the cab on the night of the performance.

"Positive," Mary says, looking out the window at the muddled blare of Euston Road after dark. "He'll need _somebody_ to snicker with during the boring bits, won't he?"

"I never said The Nutcracker is boring," Sherlock corrects. "Just that it is unbearably banal."

They pick John up at the surgery, and when he gets into the cab next to Mary it smushes her more snugly against Sherlock. Sherlock fights the urge to flinch at the too-intimate contact. Mary seems perfectly unbothered, though, bestowing a quick peck to John's lips and calling out directions to the cabbie.

When The British Museum is glowing outside John puts his arm over Mary's shoulders, her gloved hand twining with his bare one where it dangles in the brief space between her coat and Sherlock's.

*

"Are we meant to know," John is whispering. "I mean are we actually meant to know what's happening right now, plot-wise?"

Sherlock dips his head to whisper back, "The toy soldiers are battling a band of militant mice."

"Mice."

"Well, the heroine has been shrunken to their size."

John snorts. "Right, of course."

"You've honestly never seen this ballet before?" Sherlock eyes the Christmas-choked stage below them. The seats in the Coliseum Theatre are tiny and padded poorly with worn red velvet, made for a generally smaller build of audience member over a century ago. "It's Christmas." Mary had said so often enough, as though Sherlock could've possibly missed the saccharine seer of fairy lights adorning every third building they'd passed tonight.

"Oh, ya think?" John is smirking openly now, looking uncomfortable in his coat with his knees trapped by the seat in front of him. Sherlock has it even worse.

" _Shh_ ," Sherlock says urgently, dragging him closer with a hand on his shoulder. "Mary places nostalgic value on that mortifying display on the stage. She used to dance as a young girl."

"Er, no, she didn't."

Sherlock frowns. "But she . . . told me she did."

"Yeah, well, she told _me_ she didn't. It was the first thing I asked when she suggested this, you know."

"But - "

"You calling my future wife a liar?"

An orchestra hit gets their attention.

John snickers. "Sorry, did a little girl just murder that furry with her shoe?"

"Ah, shoe as a murder weapon – not as uncommon as one might think. There's the laces, of course. And the ability to secret away small makeshift weapons ('shanks', if you will) in the soles or – what?"

John shakes his head, face tight with repressed laughter. The shadowy lighting of the theater makes him look the same as he looked in London alleyways at Sherlock's side in the dark. For a warm uncomplicated moment Sherlock can't remember why he'd stayed away for 2 years 4 months and 19 wasteful days.

John nods at Sherlock's hand, which had never left John's shoulder. "You, er, afraid I'm going somewhere?"

Sherlock clasps his hands together in his lap. "Well it _is_ a terrible ballet," he mutters.

*

Sherlock has heard people describe it as 'listening to music', but to him it's a visual experience.

Scurrying trails of notes that fade in or out, reappearing closer or farther away, bigger or smaller or lighter or darker. All of them fitting together harmoniously or fighting for dominance when the orchestra is tutti.

With the notes laid out like this Sherlock can see intervals and chord progressions, leading tones to be resolved and the categories of embellishing tones or keys, instrument or composer histories monologuing from afar while the lines of counterpoint battle and dance.

During the pas de deux Sherlock watches shimmering harp arpeggios weave over a blue-lit stage, sees blurry pizzicatos sneaking into sight to punctuate them. And when the cellos sweep forward with huge tenuto notes it blotches over John's face.

Oh. John is talking to him, then.

So Sherlock points out the mistakes that the dancers make to John to keep him from nodding off – John had had coffee at work, later in the day than usual to try to stay awake for this, but that never worked for him as well as the thrill of the chase did, and ballet was anything but thrilling when performed this predictably.

John is saying, "I mean, who exactly are the two performing this dance, anyway?"

"They're . . . well, they're the pas de deux dancers."

"We've not seen them before, Sherlock!" John whisper-shouts. 

"As I believe I have previously mentioned, this ballet _is_ nonsensical." Sherlock waves the program in his face.

"No, you didn't."

"Yes I did," Sherlock says. "Well, to Mary."

"Oh, we're one and the same now, then? I know we common folk do tend to blend together for you but come _on_ . . . "

"I'd thought blending into one entity was rather the _point_ of a marriage, albeit one of the stupider ones."

"Bo- _ys_ ," Mary sings. She leans over John to point at the program, having to rest the heel of her hand on the underside of Sherlock's wrist due to the angle, but the unexpected contact shoots shivers up to the roots of Sherlock's hair. "It's the Sugar-bloody-Plum Fairy and her dapper young man, do pay attention."

"The flesh of a plum is, incidentally, fairly good substitute for a human's in some particular experime - "

"Shut up, Sherlock," John and Mary chorus.

After the dance when the audience is applauding, Mary addresses Sherlock again: "Well, it is a boring as is, I'll grant you." She smiles more slyly than usual. "Maybe another dancer could spice it up a little."

*

It's a mob scene outside the Coliseum. John jogs out ahead through the crowd to hail a cab.

Sherlock pulls Mary aside. "What are you up to?"

She raises an eyebrow at his hand on her arm, removes it carefully before putting her own hand in the center of his chest and letting it drag slowly lower. "I'm up for anything, really. How about you?" She pulls sharply on Sherlock's belt. Sherlock can't stop himself from gasping a little.

"You are inviting me to participate in a threesome with you and John? In the sexual sense."

Mary pats his cheek. "Knew you'd get there eventually."

John's waving them over, now. Mary walks toward the cab. Frolics, really. 

When Sherlock catches them up and slips into the back of the cab next to John, Mary is whispering in his ear. John's eyes are wide and dumbfounded and it's too dark to confirm but Sherlock is certain he's blushing. When Sherlock has to shove into him to close the door John swallows and licks his lips, and Sherlock doesn’t even realize they're staring at each other until Mary's voice breaks the silence.

"221 Baker Street, please. _So_." Mary bends forward to address them both, crocheted pink scarf dangling. "What do you think, then?"

"I mean it's all fine I, er, I dunno it's, er, it's - "  
"Something I've considered of course but only in theory - "

Mary smiles innocently. "About the ballet?"

John is talking too quickly: "Well it's impressive, isn't it? The talent it takes to perform like that . . . "

"And the pretty tutus," Mary adds helpfully

"And the pretty tutus," John agrees. He can't decide what to do with his arms, folding them or pretending to adjust his coat. "What about you, Sherlock? Not as bad as you thought?"

"I haven't, er . . . " Sherlock clears his throat. "Haven't decided yet."

*

The front door closes too loudly. 

The air inside the foyer is even thicker with tension than the cab ride had been, and Sherlock can't avoid the reality of what is happening any longer when he stumbles on the stairs and John rights him, leans into him. They stare at each other and Sherlock is suddenly aware of what he might lose (again) but hasn't much time to think about it further because Mary shoves her way between them, catches both of them by the collars of their shirts like they're children and leads them up to 221 B.

Sherlock is the last through the threshold and the thud he hears while he closes the kitchen door turns out to be Mary kissing John against a wall as if she intends to solder him to it permanently.

And Sherlock's seen them kiss before, of course, but this is drastically different. John's brows knit and his hands disappear somewhere under Mary's coat, Mary pushes her leg between his and Sherlock can see her biting John's bottom lip before their mouths mash together again. She pushes John's coat off, lets it fall to the kitchen floor.

Mary's hands move up and down John's chest, and when he gasps she dips her head to kiss his neck. She sucks over his carotid artery and shoots Sherlock a glittery-eyed look when John moans.

John's eyes flutter open and he takes her scarf off, throwing it heedlessly at the kitchen table, gets her out of her coat too and catches her chin in his hands to kiss her again – deep and demanding and Sherlock can see their tongues for a minute.

Mary tilts so far into John that it unbalances them, knocking them into Sherlock and effectively pinning him against the door. John's eyes are heated, and Mary's are smug, and Sherlock doesn't know where to look until she drags him down by his scarf.

"You haven't done this before have you?"

Sherlock sighs. "Despite what some people think, I am not sexually illiterate."

Mary chuckles lowly. "You haven't done it before _really_ , though. Never completely authentically."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just relax," Mary soothes, one warm hand slipping up underneath Sherlock's scarf while the other unknots it. She kisses him, sweet gentle touch of lips which are wet from kissing John. Sherlock kisses her back without thinking of what he's doing, which is something he's never experienced in his past sexual encounters – usually he calculates and deduces and utilizes any relevant skills for maximum impact. Kissing Mary isn't nearly as complicated as it should be, given the situation.

Sherlock forgets they aren't alone until he hears John's breathing, harsh and faster than Sherlock and Mary's now. When Sherlock opens his eyes John is watching them avidly.

John reaches out, cards through Sherlock's hair and Sherlock sighs at the sharp delight of John's fingernails vying with the softness of Mary's kisses. John holds Sherlock's head still for Mary to kiss him while John nuzzles against his neck – hot breath and ticklish hair and the balm of his body heat.

Mary pulls back, sidestepping Sherlock so that his instinct to lean forward and follow her lands him tidily into John's arms instead.

"Can I . . . ?" Sherlock's eyes flick from Mary's expectant face to John's mouth but nobody responds before they're kissing.

They're kissing.

Sherlock has always wanted John.

Just John. All to himself and in every conceivable way. So it's astonishing, now, to be so grateful that John has Mary. It's a cliché and it's always seemed a truly nonsensical notion in Sherlock's opinion, but her making John happy simply _makes_ Sherlock happy whether it makes an ounce of sense or not. All Sherlock knows is that the whirlwind world slots into place to see John the way he is with her.

Mary's voice is like an underwater shout: "Shall we move this to somewhere with a bed?"

Sherlock isn't sure how they end up in his room, neat and bare and the little lamp on the bedside table offering a harsh and limited light, but hands ease his coat and jacket off while other hands toy with the buttons of his shirt before working them loose.

"Do this often, do you?" Sherlock asks breathlessly.

Mary tugs his shirt out of his trousers to get at the final few buttons. "No, you're just special," she beams. "Though John _did_ call your name out in bed once . . . "

"I most definitely did _not_ ," John says.

"Oh right, sorry – think that was me, actually. I assume you were being aloof and withholding or something at the time?"

John smirks. By some unspoken agreement they each take one of Sherlock's sleeves and work together to pull his shirt off. While Mary unbuckles Sherlock's belt John's hand is running up Sherlock's chest, soothing and possessive at once.

Mary's starts removing John's clothes with considerably more speed. "Aurora, then?" she asks him.

John's mouth quirks. "Antarctic?"

"What are you talking abo - " Sherlock's eyes dart between them. " _You_ two have code words?"

John rolls his eyes. "No, we just share a kink for strategizing expeditions to the south pole during sex."

Sherlock shrugs. "Some people fetishize balloons."

John stops feeling Sherlock up to gape at him. 

"Looners, they're called," Sherlock adds. "What?"

John just stares.

"Now, now, you two," Mary chides, taking a step back. "I do believe it's my turn at this point, don't you?" Draws a hand down her chest, down the length of her already low-cut dress and lower still, slipping up and under and raising the hem as she presses her fingers between her legs and sighs in delight.

John practically _growls_ , which goes straight to Sherlock's groin. John reaches for her but she halts him by pressing the same fingers to his parted lips. "Oh," Mary says when his tongue snakes out to sweep across them. "I _know_ you know what to do, love. So maybe you ought to give Sherlock a little demonstration, this time?"

And John had been nervous at first, but the only remaining shred of that now is his wry little laugh before he turns on Sherlock, captures his hand and places it on Mary's shoulder, guides him to push one sleeve down, then the other, then her strapless bra and finally Sherlock is cupping her breast and it shouldn't feel so significant, _none_ of this should – the human body was a puzzle that Sherlock knew intimately, but in this context . . .

"No," John says, "like this."

Sherlock doesn't know what he's talking about until John slides his hand over Mary's other breast appreciatively, bends to suck the nipple into his mouth for a moment and then rubs gentle circles through the saliva. Sherlock mimics him, relishing the heat of John's appraising gaze as much as Mary's pleased hum.

John starts kissing her, slow measured kisses while they both rub her nipples and she squirms and sighs. John makes a needy, frustrated sound into her mouth and tells her, "Take this off, all of it. Get on the bed."

Mary's smile is lusciously lewd as she lets the dress fall to the floor, steps out of her knickers while backing up to sit on the edge of Sherlock's bed. The sudden exposure of so much skin isn't a turn on to Sherlock in itself, but the mischievous way she watches them both while taking her earrings off makes Sherlock want to steal away the mischief and drown her in pleasure. The tiny tattoo at her hip is an unremarkable flowery affair, no notable meaning to it except that it's a cover up.

Sherlock hasn't much time to analyze this, however, because John sneaks up on him with kisses to his neck and across his jaw to his mouth, fingers digging into Sherlock's forearms while John's tongue delves cleverly into his mouth. John's bare chest against Sherlock's own, John's erection insistent against Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock's is constrained by his trousers, and somehow being the only person here with any clothes left leaves him feeling the most exposed.

"Sherlock," John says, savoring the word. "Get on your knees."

Sherlock trips over himself to comply.

John strokes through his hair. "God, just look at you . . . "

"Bloody gorgeous," Mary says, sitting on the edge of the bed. When Sherlock looks in her direction she crooks a finger at him. "Now be a dear and come over here."

John drops to his knees as well, kisses Sherlock some more before turning his attention to Mary. He places soft kisses in the center of her chest, moving oh-so-slowly southward while Mary's breath speeds up during every pause. Her legs part a bit wider in invitation.

John's hands on Mary's thighs are forceful but coaxing as he spreads them even further, laps up the wetness between her legs like he's intoxicated by it. The sweet heady scent of Mary's arousal is overwhelming.

"Right," John says, turning to Sherlock with an obscenely shiny mouth and chin. "You give it a try now."

Sherlock blinks. "I don't, well, I've never quite – "

"What?" John teases, snagging his hand in Sherlock's hair just to get his attention. "You can't figure it out? You _give up_? The great Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock scoots toward Mary, angles his body to bring his face in close. Mary watches him, flushed and breathless and biting her bottom lip. 

"I want you to eat her out now, Sherlock," John tells him. "Go on, then."

Sherlock shivers at his voice. He touches Mary first, parts the slick seam of her labia and finds himself dazzled by the heat of it. He starts exploring it with his tongue, intrigued now and wanting to do it even without John's presence behind him. 

"That's good, Sherlock," John purrs. "Lick the clit too. No, see, at the top of - "

Sherlock pauses to snap, "I'm not an _idiot_ , John." To prove it he traces his tongue against Mary's clit lightly before sucking it, equally light, then using his tongue again.

Mary moans. "Uggghh, he's definitely not. _Oh_ that's . . . God, yes – oh come on, come on that's brilliant, _ah_ . . . "

Sherlock laps gently, enjoying the way Mary's thighs quiver, the enchantment of her moans and encouragements.

John's impatient hands at Sherlock's shoulders manhandle him up onto the bed to Mary's side. John lifts Mary's legs and Mary tightens them around him while falling onto her back with a laugh. 

"Oi, detective-man, you're not to stop with _that_ ," Mary says. "How many chances does a girl get for this sort of thing? Oh _God_ that feels good, Sherlock . . . " She bucks up into the attention of Sherlock's tongue, apparently pleased with the way it flicks harder over her clit when he's licking her from this angle.

"Hopefully many more," John replies, then pushes his cock inside her. Sherlock knows because it's happening inches from his face and he can bloody well _smell_ John now, too. "Jesus Christ you're so _tight_ , Mary . . . "

Sherlock has some difficulty at first because John's thrusts into Mary keep dislodging him, but once he starts using the rhythmic jostle of her body to his advantage she's rocking against Sherlock's tongue and whining in pleasure.

John fucks her harder in response, like he's trying to coax the sounds she makes to the highest possible pitch. It's definitely working, and when Mary grabs Sherlock by the hair and grinds up into his face frantically John stills.

Mary's whole body tenses up and Sherlock maintains the movement of his tongue across her clit until she sighs heavily and relaxes, the hand in Sherlock's hair just stroking listlessly now. Sherlock rests his head against her stomach and catches his breath, watching as much as feeling John pull out of her.

"You can sit up, Sherlock," John says. Sherlock sits up, and John kisses him dizzyingly, apparently seeking out Mary's taste in every corner of his mouth. Sherlock's suddenly reminded that his own erection is full and straining painfully against the front of his trousers. It doesn't help that John is murmuring to him, "Think you can get me off too, now? Mary _really_ liked that. I wonder if you're just as good at sucking cock?"

Sherlock is on his knees on the floor again before John's even finished speaking. He takes John into his mouth, moans at the pungent taste of the both of them on his tongue, annoyed when his gag reflex protests but making a mental note to practice relaxing it should this opportunity present itself in the future.

John doesn't make as much noise as Mary, but that's just as compelling because every muttered curse that catches in his throat is something to be relished.

Sherlock hears Mary moving around on the bed, feels her lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder before she joins him on the floor. She tugs Sherlock's trousers and pants down before lying on one of Sherlock's pillows, elbows propping her up so she can suck Sherlock's cock so suddenly deep so much so _good_. Sherlock gasps around John and John groans.

A quick glance upward confirms that John's darting wide and pupil-blown eyes between them. "She's amazing, isn't she, Sherlock? _God_ , Mary, can't even believe . . . _God_ , yeah . . . " He thrusts into Sherlock's mouth like he can't help it and Sherlock does his best to keep sucking despite a sore jaw and the mess of Mary's come and his own saliva seeping down his chin.

And Mary _is_ amazing, though, taking Sherlock's cock so effortlessly, _so far_ while her tongue lashes relentlessly along the underside. Sherlock knows he'll orgasm any second, and though his attempts at warning her are hopelessly garbled by John's cock she nevertheless seems to sense it, lessening the pressure at just the right moment and swallowing it all when he comes.

Mary licks her lips before rising to her knees. She places hungry kisses up Sherlock's neck and cheek and over to John's cock when it slips out of Sherlock's mouth between thrusts.

Mary nudges Sherlock's head back so she can tongue teasingly at the slit for herself. "Sherlock," she says, in the most indecently melodious voice. "You never have learned how to share, have you?"

Sherlock doesn't know what to say. Mary's mussed hair and huge mischievous eyes and her closeness make him feel so fundamentally uncertain. He opens his mouth when she guides John's cock back to him, bobs on it a few times before Mary takes it back for another few strokes – and again, and again – 

John braces himself against Sherlock's shoulder, pets Mary's hair vaguely with his other hand and bites his lip but can't hold back any longer – when he comes it's into Mary's mouth but Sherlock takes over after she pulls away to gather up the last few pulses of it.

John falls back onto the bed in relief, murmuring praise to the both of them and grinning up at Sherlock's ceiling as his breathing evens out. 

Mary's hand is gentle as it steadies Sherlock's and she kisses him again, in a manner that's surprisingly chaste given recent events. After several languid minutes it ebbs and Sherlock helps Mary to her feet. They each lie next to John on the sheets that she had twisted up earlier, Sherlock on one side and Mary on the other.

Sherlock watches John doze, his unworried brow and the sweat dampening his hairline. He feels Mary's arm lay over top of his own where he'd thrown it around John's middle.

*

Bacon.

Value brand, pre-cooked and stuffed with preservatives. Pinch of nutmeg that does little to enhance the flavor but John always does it anyway because his father had – supposition: John only ever saw his father in the mornings before work, thus he holds onto that memory through reenactment, considering it a happy one despite plentiful evidence to the contrary. 

"So John has daddy issues?" A woman's voice. Accent maybe a little – oh. Mary is talking to him, then.

"I said that out loud," Sherlock concludes.

Mary stretches out luxuriously on her back, nakedness mostly obscured by Sherlock's rumpled sheets.

"You haven't any?" Sherlock asks.

Her eyes are closed. "Hm?"

"Daddy issues."

Mary snickers. "Oh, Sherlock. You wouldn't believe me if I told you." She smiles, rolls closer to kiss him a little before snuggling back into the sheets.

Sherlock gets out of the bed, wraps a dressing gown around his body tightly against the cold air of his bedroom.

The kitchen is much warmer. John is there.

"What's all this?" Sherlock yawns. "Don't they have labs and things for you to experiment in, at the surgery?"

"It's not an experiment, Sherlock. It is food."

Sherlock peers at the contents of the frying pan. "Mm, no."

"Normal people use the kitchen to make food, not conduct experiments."

"Dull." Sherlock sits at the table.

Mary emerges from the bedroom wearing Sherlock's other dressing gown. "Ohh, I wouldn’t say that, Sherlock. Not after last night, certainly? Morning, love," she tells John, kissing his check.

She sits across from Sherlock at the table, and Sherlock stops stretching his feet out to make room for her.

*


End file.
